Tag Archives: soft

No it is not an escape anymorebecauseit is not only me who is into these addictions of milder kind.All I want is what everyone already has.Don’t worry these books and music I get high ondon’t alter my perception of realitylike they used to before.So I am fine with irrelevant goals of having one more book to read, one more page to fill up,and some hours to sit and stare at screens of literature of a cruder form.They may not constitute the real meaning of life.But I have not seen anyone who is particularly worried about missing the real point of life.

. . . . . .

I know this consumerism and media culture irritates you.That I look like one of the thousands who sit and demandto be entertained, to be fed with something other thanthe reality of insufficient time and cash.Would it make me more real, would your gaze become more softerif I bring up a portion of my life where I was hurt by this world,when the reality didn’t change just because of my disappointment in it.That not everyone can be one with the nature and one with society,when nature is far away from where we are locked,when society is all about waiting for someone else to mess up on a grander scale than us.See that is what I don’t want to talk about.It is depressing enough to live it.We can either discuss about how I almost found friend in a fictional character,found a mirror or even a window in another,how I do not agree with most reviews, how I couldn’t get the tragic end of the story out my head.

. . . . . .

I don’t mind sitting in front immaculate shows of liesif that is where the my temporary relief of my life is hidden,at least we are entitled to that much – relief.

The sun that shrivels up in your eyes every morning,
the dry tear that never leaves your eyes,
the soft bend in your words when make excuses for other’s fault,
the hint of self-berating in your mellowed down tales of woe.
This weakness that is similar to mine.
This weakness that I love.
I wish I could free you from this,
if only I knew how.

I am stuck somewhere between
the hopeless continuation
and the frightening end.
The spiraling down tower of
love, the staggering me-
filled to brim with saved up hopes
spilling, losing one calming delusion at a time-
wasted on the people, wasted on reality
that never wants to change,
never wants to grow.
The soft sky falling on this world
talking everything with itself,
except me.

. When the pain hits my face
. (those hands used to the have the softest touch)
. my skin would have broken up in the ugliest ways,
. if the same hands wouldn’t have rushed
. to cradle the crying me
. without losing a second.

. The pain was gone as soon as it came.
. This skin has a way of healing
. that seems to me as
. an unfaithfulness,
. a betrayal.
. As if, even my body
. didn’t want to leave any evidence
. that could justify my tears and my mistrust.

. I have again invited the pain, the consequence
. of being “broken too many times”.
. The word “broken”
. seems like a shiny ornament
. that is meant to distract my eyes,
. my eyes
. that are anyway not capable
. of seeing things for what they are.

. I no longer trust my mind
. that doesn’t know
. the reason for the anger (that I awakened in others),
. the disappointments
. written in neon lights on the darkening faces,
. that doesn’t have any account of how I ended up becoming
. a person
. this bad, this wrong, this fragile, this cruel.

An ornament blue that reminded me of your eyes.
The sleeve of silk that had finally felt like mine.
The black of my eyes, the blood of my lips.
They took it away one by one.
While you looked on
almost happy to have avoided my fate.
My life became colored with
a dazzling red of sun
being devoured by sky and sea alike.
And no flowery word you use
to soften the memory- of what I felt
and what I suffered,
could remove me from the hell that I was thrown
only for you to climb out.
Maybe you never considered
how I had to pay the price for your dream.
Maybe you never thought of me
when you walked the evening roads
lit with the warm light of possibilities.
Maybe that’s why you stand in front of me
asking why I am bitter.

There is a soft tune that
moves beneath your fingers
as they move over the pages
and words and worlds
that you will never see.
All the words of hope
that I whisper
to the you
who exists within these barriers
of skin, bones and sorrow.
I fear these words will be like the music
that doesn’t stop but fades,
dissolving into time and distance.
Like that music
it will pass from me to you,
from you to nothingness.

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I am the "little armored one", moving gently through life. Hoping to safeguard my sensitivities with layers of words and the expression of thought. Shielding my mirror neurons at times, or tasting music and spinning till I'm dizzy. Every moment here is a gift.